Shotgun
by Vixen Argentum
Summary: On the tumblr community Bleachlists, it was suggested that Nemu would choose Lisa as a partner, if she had to choose a lover of the same sex. This is what my brain came up with. Nemu visits Lisa's apartment to find out if Lisa is as good in practice as she is in theory.


**WARNING: This contains F/F sex. If you are not okay with that, please click the back button and read something else.**

**A/N** I have a bit of a headcanon that Nemu suffers from dissociative episodes. I thought 2nd person might be a way to showcase that a little bit.

* * *

You searched through the database and there was only one. Mayuri-sama is meticulous in his data collection, but this data is even older than the words typed by his punctual fingertips. The statistics give you comfort—you know the meaning of centimeters and kilograms. Your mouth waters as you read over her favorite foods. If you were superstitious, her birthday places her in a sign compatible to yours—the sign of the eccentric and of the mind that rules the heart.

The first time you saw her in person—not the surveillance tape that watched over the Vaizard training grounds that Mayuri-sama had "borrowed" from Urahara—you were taken aback. You didn't expect to see eyes as cold as yours—the eyes that do what must be done. She's clearly an adult, but she wears a sailor uniform. Just adding the glasses makes her a walking fetish, a thing that men pay money to see. Her intelligence scores are high; she must know her effects, just like you do.

"I didn't realize that any shinigami were going to answer my ad," she says, pushing her glasses further up her nose.

"There was an ad?" you say, confused.

"Yeah, I put one up to meet some new people." Lisa regards you with suspicion. "Considering that you're vice captain of the 12th, I'm not sure I trust this as a simple visit."

So she had placed her info with a dating website or something like that. No, you had just taken her email address and arranged meeting for a first date.

She crosses her legs, shins pressed together in the way only made possible by the female skeleton. Her skin is bare and natural; she is beautiful without overstatement. If you could, you'd feel a little jealous, because she was born a goddess, not created to be one.

"I searched the database we keep of all current and former gotei 13 members for a member of the same sex that I'd like to date. You were the only one worth my time," you say.

"Why not a member of the opposite sex?" says Lisa. "With looks like yours, I'm sure you could find someone easily."

You shake your head. "Men only want one thing."

"And what is that?" She leans closer to you, eyes wary.

"Lies." After all, in your programming, your father taught you the words men want to hear.

Lisa smiles, laughing to herself. She pours you a cup of sake. You relax. You've made a positive impression.

Her apartment is rather small, big enough for just her. You offer the bag that you've held onto, hidden by your side. She takes it and pulls out the books inside. Her face gets an impish grin on it as she thumbs through the pages.

"I don't know how you knew I was looking for these," Lisa looks at you, questioning. "These are rare, out of print."

"They were mine," you say. "I hear that you have a collection that rivals what the 12th keeps in its vaults."

"You have good taste. I know the 12th has always been a little pervy, even when Hikifune ran things. It only magnified under Urahara and…" she trails off, and you know why. Lisa points to a wall that is completely covered in bookshelves and boxes. "Read what you like."

She brushes past you as you make your way to her stash. There's a pretty even mix, males with females, same-sex couplings, futanari, even things with a touch of anthro. There's kink everywhere, from a harmless glasses kink to the graphic eroguro that rivals what you've found under Akon's mattress. This woman intrigues you; you don't know whether she's a dabbler or a true connoisseur of what the world of flesh has to offer. Are these curiosities, or does her blood thrum with passion as she turns the pages. Is she merely an observer just like you—someone who must _know_.

The smells start to pour out of the kitchen and Lisa sets a hotpot down on her table. She pats the cushion next to her.

"Why don't you join me?" Lisa lifts up the skirt of the kotatsu. You crawl into the warmth, your bare legs by the heater, and her warm body next to you.

She serves you the dish, meat, noodles, and vegetables in a spicy broth. You feel her eyes on you as you scarf it down. You eat just as you do anything else: efficiently. Now the warmth of the food is mixing with the warmth of the sake she poured you earlier. You want to talk to her, but the words won't come out. But this is not new; you've spent your life speechless.

Her hand brushes your face. "You don't say much," she remarks.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be." Her hand still rests at your cheek. "You're a rare kind. You don't speak unless you've actually got something to say."

You cast your eyes down. You don't know why, but that's always what you've done. It's not what you want, it's not what you want. You need to break it, now.

You lean forward and kiss her, matter of fact. You might not have words, but gods do you have actions. Her lips taste of spice, of the peach notes in the sake. She's no longer touching your cheek but grabbing the back of your neck as she meets you with her tongue stroke for stroke. Warmth in the kotatsu. Warmth in her hands that touch you. Warmth where her breasts press against your own.

She presses you down, your legs intertwining and she kneels, grinding herself against your thigh. Lisa unties your braid, your starlit black hair now free.

There she stops.

You reach a hand up under her skirt, sliding up the soft skin, but she takes your hand and sets it down to the side gently. "Perv," she jokes.

"Is there something I can do for you?" you ask, unable to understand or process the emotion on her face. After all, waiting, helping is your default state.

"Hmmm…"

Lisa settles a hand in the hollow of your hips. She runs it up the silk of your kimono, fingering your obi, plucking at the red cord that ties it shut.

"You really are just like a doll," she says. "Have you ever done anything like this before?"

Your romantic experiences are a patchwork quilt, littered with odd interactions with members of the 12th, small explorations with the Women's Shinigami Association over too many bottles of sake, as well as graphic manuals and videos that your father demanded you memorize for the purpose of infiltration. Yes, those videos were the ones you liked the best.

"I don't know," you say. You remember bits and pieces, a hand here, a ghost of a tongue there…though what goes to what remains a blur. Like Mayuri-sama, if it's not work of interest to you, it's quickly wiped out.

Lisa laughs. "For some reason, I actually believe you." She pulls at the red cord. "Let me see what you've got."

She loosens your obi but doesn't remove it. The top of your kimono starts to open and she eases it down your shoulders. The hadajuban isn't tied tight, and falls with it. She can almost see the full view of your breasts that are no longer restrained. Lightly, she traces the newly revealed cleavage.

"I'll leave it there," she says. "It's sexier if you don't take it off all the way, don't you agree?"

Do you? You've lived your life being told what is sexy and what isn't. You've studied the likes and dislikes of thousands upon thousands of people. You've never really thought about you in particular; you are the scientist, not the specimen. What a silly question, but one that eats at you indeed.

Luckily she doesn't expect an answer. You don't mean to be confused, but it happens anyway. You are happy you picked her, now more than ever. She is a worthy subject indeed.

Lisa's hands slide up your thigh, and your hair stands on end at the touch. She stares at you, locking her eyes with yours. You suddenly realize that you've been holding your breath this entire time.

"Your dress is so traditional, even though it's still a bit risqué. Do you wear the traditional underwear as well?" She asked.

Before you can answer, she's already playing with the soft patch of skin where your upper thigh joins your hip. Her smile grows more mischievous.

"I can't believe you don't wear something else under there with a skirt that short!"

"If I'm going into battle, I do," you say flatly.

"But why not here?"

"Practicality," you answer.

Lisa is now doubled over with laughter. You wonder if it was something you said... No matter. You're used to this, this living between worlds. At least her world is full of warmth.

Looking down at you, Lisa now realizes that you didn't make a joke. She lifts your leg up, bending it at the knee and leans down to kiss the inside of your thigh.

"Not even a blush?" she says. "I like making cute girls blush." The playful tone haunts you, whispering in your ears, and you feel…afraid?

You know 10 ways to get her off using your hands alone. You've studied positions; you've learned techniques. You even have an attachment of your own invention that would make any man seem inadequate. Yet here you are, the one on the floor, seemingly passive except for the thunderstorm in your mind.

Then she says it.

"You don't get a lot of attention, do you?" Lisa takes off her glasses and puts them on the table. "Relax, I'll take care of you."

Your throat feels tight. You don't know what sense she means, but somehow you've wanted somebody to say those words for your whole life.

You reach up to touch her but she simply takes your hand in hers, kisses it, and climbs over top you. She interlocks her fingers with yours above your head and finds your lips again. Her lips are softer than anyone you've ever kissed. Softer than flower petals. A brush like suede. They graze your throat, your collarbone, the hollow between your breasts. She releases your hands, but you don't move.

"No good?" she asks as she returns to her kneeling position, straddling your hips. She studies your face, squinting without her glasses on.

You smile. She thinks just like you; theory feeds your mind, but you only care for what works—it is practical that way. She would have done well in the 12th.

"It's good," you say.

"You don't even make a sound." Her fingertip traces your lower lip, pulling it down lightly before letting it go.

"I will."

"Oh?"

"We haven't gotten that far yet."

After a startled pause, Lisa laughs again. "You really are blunt."

You blink, surprised. "So are you."

You place your hands on her hips. This time, she doesn't pull you off. You squeeze the curves, letting your thumbs rest on the points of the bone. The bare skin of her stomach is taut, and you follow the inflection of her waist. Even though she has a physique that most women would die for, you can feel the athleticism in her frame—the softness that has been sacrificed to feed muscle and bone. She's worked hard to be the warrior that she is, not like you who was built on deception. The smile on your face belies the analysis you are performing with your fingertips. Again, you feel in awe at this kind of beauty, form feeding function.

You reach under the band of her bra and squeeze, one in each hand. Here too she is natural, and even though her left side bears more fullness than the right, though you doubt any one's hands besides your own could tell the difference. She arches her back as you touch her, closing her eyes as she takes it in. You lift off her shirt and undo her bra and keep exploring her skin. It's not as pale as yours, even where the sun never touches it. You rub over her nipples, teasing them, and thoughtfully you play with the erect tips. You want to pull her down, so that her skin can reach your mouth, but again she pulls herself away.

Instead, she slides back down, sitting between your knees. Lightly she tickles the inside of your thigh. You squirm a little and she giggles.

"I want to hear you make that noise," she says, pressing her cheek against your knee. "I promise, it will be quick, and painless."

But what if you wanted it to be slow and torturous? Nah, it's your first meeting. You can leave that for another time. You know she will entertain kink just as much as you will.

She hikes up your skirt a bit, sliding the silk down your skin. You feel the cool air on you, and the buzzing sensation of her gaze on your bare skin.

"You're so cute and pink," she says.

With a single finger she traces over your folds, first along the edges, then deep, sliding into the creases. She grips each layer between her fingers and thumb, fanning out the velvety skin. She finds the bundle of nerves at the top in the center and rubs gently. You breathe in steeply at the stimulation.

"I know this isn't what you want," Lisa whispers. "Not someone like you, so meek and passive, so deceptive."

Lisa watches the subtle pink splash across the pale skin of your cheeks, across your uncovered chest and fingers you with a more direct, circular rhythm. You are her instrument and she is plucking a string. You want her to paw at you so hard that you're bruised tomorrow every time you push too hard. You've shoved your hands into her hair, messing it up, but you have to grab something. One of your legs starts to move of its own accord and she smacks it back down and pins you down expertly with an elbow.

She licks her fingers and plunges two fingers into you, deeply, to the knuckle. Your body involuntarily clenches down on them hard. Lisa grins as she feels inside you with her fingertips. She finds the ridges she's looking for and pushes up, stroking you, as if she is beckoning literally for something to come forth. You gasp for air, and though it fills your lungs, your mind dizzys. She knows exactly where to hit you, and you had no idea that your nerves were wired this powerfully, after all, what advantage would that prove?

As you're lost in your mind, Lisa moves her mouth down onto you. You jump as she nips at you lightly, and she just fucks you harder with her hand in return. She sucks on your sensitive flesh, mouth drawing in even more blood to your tissues. Her tongue feels prehensile as she licks your clit, the tongue not as forceful as her fingers before, but still just hard enough. She works rhythms inside of you and rhythms with her mouth. You pant harder and harder and your legs close, her head between your thighs like a vice.

"I want to hear it," she says. "You'll let me hear it, won't you? I'll have to fuck you again and again until I do."

You run your hands over your own breasts, feeling how large and heavy they are now. Your voice is catching in the back of your throat. You want to cry out so badly.

"Do I have to go even harder?" Lisa croons. She bears down with only a little more force, but you can feel a difference that is tenfold.

A small sound escapes your lips and your muscles tense up. You curl in toward your stomach as you feel the pressure building in you. It's maddening, forceful; you are a volcano before it erupts.

Lisa begins to move her hands and her tongue faster. Now you can't hold it in anymore. You cry out, and as you do, she adds even more stimulation, so now you can't stop. You're glowing in a halo of your own sweat and you're reeling as you throw your head back. Your eyes are squeezed shut and you are breathless from orgasm. Just when you think it's over, it keeps coming, and your muscles keep clenching down on her hand.

And then there is nothing. Your mind is blank.

Eventually the tension falls out of your muscles. Lisa licks her fingers and grins at you wolfishly.

"You really do cum like a shotgun. You're adorable. I like you." Lisa laughed.

"Um..." You sit up and pull your kimono closer around you. "Thank you."

Lisa shook her head. "You've got all night to pay me back."

You narrow your eyes as you look at her. For right now, she is your mission. And in your missions you never fail.


End file.
